The moon is a burgundy nail, Curved along a fog-lit sky, Making ash of moonlight, Like snow against my face.
Torches burn, Without fire, Down by the metal shore, Lighthouse lanterns flowing, Up to my aviary.
Along the hill line, Amidst the oak groves, Through the darkness, Where the wild things bay, I saw something.
Indistinct shadow, A wisp of grey, A tricky eye-blink, Gone and there, Just a long night, I think.
The penthouse is a cold place, Threadbare fiber optics humming, Velvet trappings rustling, Footfalls by the toes, I've been alone for quite some time.
Candied dream, the memory, Lost in thought and reverie, Mind the mazes' hedgerow flow, As ever onward we all go, Wheresoever that may be.
The long-exposure, Picked through night, As it came, From the heather plain, My eyes unconvinced.
The desk is dark maple, The chairs put to bed, So too the lamp, But not the scotch, It keeps me company.
Sleep does not come, While the wall window beckons, Where through its eyes, I catch yours, Staring into mine.
Lost and found, Hair of the sunset, Eyes of the isle, Waving teeth, As I look.
Floating out there, The past but present, Making drops of moonlight, Like snow against my face.
Candied dream, the memory, Lost in thought and reverie, Mind the mazes' hedgerow flow, As ever onward it may go, Wheresoever that may be.
* * *
The Beast
By darkened deep, Where no things sleep, And all the eyes are white, In nightfall's reign, Where dwells the pain, That gives this one its sight.
Hollow chasm sepulcher, Tucked beneath the grand fissure, Claws and red blood rage, Branching veins pulse deepest black, Grinding bone but life alack, It hungers for one sage.
The earth shakes low, Whereso it go, Its maw a gaping stretch, While dancing teeth, Make play beneath, Just one that it will fetch.
And when the sun is dead, With babes bade to bed, The fear begins to rise, For the mountains creek, From base to peak, While all now hear Its' cries.
Death itself then stalks the land, Its hatred and its swords at hand, Rushing as the wind is made, Spry grey flesh with muscles thick, To finally put and end to it, Crushing down into a glade.
It shrieked on high, While clouds passed by, And split the night in twain, Distant ears were bled, About the head, Wounds that wept like rain.
The thing starred on, Its tongue now gone, To gnash against its frown, Its mouth moved slow, Where words did flow, And choked the meadow brown.
"You have come to summon me, From darkest realms you cannot see, A madness made inside your head, For biding not will I thee do, Never for one such as you, And soonest now I strike thee dead."
The sage's face made no reflection, Of this solemn death invection, Speaking low to emphasize: "Paradise is in your face, To take my life now from this place, But first I'll have my prize."
The creature made a horrid howl, From teeth and mouth both black and foul, Laughing high in mocking dread, "Would it be some magicks strong? The admiration of the throng? What dim fancy holds your head?"
The sage's hand snapped up and back, The creature's speech now at a lack, Eye met eye as the human said, "This world's things are naught to me, The power, the person, and the tree, I wish my inner war be dead."
At this the thing ground its dam, Of ivory metal and acid dram, "Where once a single person stood, You shattered hard in abject fear, And after that I was not near, Banished to the mountain's hood.
"There I dwelt for many a day, And stumbled hard along the way, Just like you in thought and form, But darkness you had shed, Rather than fight instead, While to the shadows did I conform.
Then the years began to stew, You died inside while I grew, Bare to naught but darker thought, Waiting for the time you call, So as to kill and claim your fall, And collect what fear hath wrought."
The sage shook its head in grief, For having long denied belief, "I cannot make amends to strife, The time has passed, For our repast, So end mine, and then your life."
Silence ruled the deadened hollow, And nothing came without to follow, Seized with some feeling new, The beast drew back a mailed claw, With deftness slow cut like a saw, And killed itself with one hew.
The burgundy of evening tore, To scatter light upon the moor, While one claw hovered near a vein, For all the power of hate had sought, To do the thing the sage had wrought, A smile, a rip, and then no pain.
�So that is how they are today, Cursed beings by the way, Two hillocks blackened as the ocean shelf, The larger one a lost corruption, The smaller deadened on presumption, One person--forever lost to their own self.
